Paper Ribbons
by syndomatic
Summary: He lets her hold his hand, just briefly, because all things considered, he needs this as much as she does. — Yoshida, Tanimura


Tanimura wears a ribbon in her hair, one day.

It's a small, delicate thing; almost inconspicuous, even, if he hadn't been looking at her from behind. But the fabric is red, patterned with flowers, and it's almost like she'd bought it solely for the purpose of grasping attention. The bright color creates a contrast against the brown of her hair, the warm shade of her eyes — the sad, thin smile spreading minutely across her face when she leans back in her chair to watch Yamada and Tappei engage loudly in their usual antics.

More than anything, though, she looks tired. From this angle, her exhaustion is not as obvious, but Tanimura had never been good at hiding her feelings; never had been good at matters concerning the heart. Ikuya could tell all this, and not just because he'd been raised by his mother to be tactful. He'd rather not admit it, though, so he just gets up from his seat to approach her, a compliment already prepared for her.

"Tanimura," he calls, already reaching her desk.

"Oh?" The girl tilts her head back, letting her long hair fall smoothly around the back of her neck, over the wood chair. The surprised look she has on her face flashes by quickly, replaced by one of vague interest. "It's you, Yoshida," she says; her voice is flat, but she's smiling anyway. "What is it?"

"Your ribbon," he says, offering her a small smile; not kind, not sweet, but sympathetic — and yet Tanimura accepts it, her mouth curving a little bit more in unsaid recognition. "It suits you a lot."

"Ah, um," begins Tanimura, fidgeting a little in her seat. She's looking away as she continues, softly, "Thanks, Yoshida."

For a moment, Ikuya thinks she'd looked disappointed, just a little. Why? Is it because he's not the person she'd expected? He can't help but feel a sting of guilt at the realization, but it stops just short of sorry. He doesn't know why. "You should wear it more often, Tanimura. You look good in it."

"Okay," she says, in a flattered laugh, but her eyes still don't look away from Tappei and Yamada; at the same time, neither do his. They stay in that position for a second, a minute, before the bell rings and Kenta steps in cautiously to break the fight.

The next day, Tanimura comes to school with her her hair tied up, a ribbon pinned delicately around each braid. Ikuya offers her a look and a smile, and this time, she doesn't take it; just sits and watches with grit teeth as Yamada starts yelling over one of Tappei's remarks about her height. He feels like he wants to say something, but he doesn't.

* * *

><p>Miho sweeps the floor in careful gestures, smooth and brisk like a proper woman should; she's practiced a lot at home, and that should at least count for something. She's annoyed, today, and it just makes her even more focused at the task in hand — she always did perform best under unpleasant conditions, anyway.<p>

Yoshida doesn't let up his responsibilities, either; he cleans the other side of the room dutifully, humming a slow, low tune as he does so. It's just the two of them working, today; the other two cleanup members are sick with the flu, and Miho is almost glad that it's Yoshida she ends up staying late with. Almost — Yoshida's weak point is that he's not Tappei, and even though she can't exactly hold it against him, she still begrudges the day their homeroom teachers decide to reshuffle the cleanup committee's names.

"Are you done with that spot?" she asks, off-hand.

"Nearly," the boy replies.

"Okay," she says, continuing to sweep at the same spot. But then: "Yoshida."

Yoshida turns to look at her. "Yes?"

Miho inhales, briefly, before saying: "You — like her, don't you? Miiko, I mean."

"Yes." He nods, quickly; level and irritatingly calm. Miho wants to be jealous, but right now, she's just mostly impressed. Yoshida is an impressive person, after all. "What about you, Tanimura? You and Tappei—"

"Yeah," Miho cuts in, feeling pink all of a sudden, hoping that he doesn't see (he probably does). Her fingers coil around the broom handle tighter, involuntarily. "I do." She sighs.

" … I understand," says Yoshida, after a pause, and his voice sounds like he does; the afternoon sunlight filters into the classroom and splays over the room, onto them, and Miho feels the hot color in her cheeks soften and fade.

"It's just — sometimes, I just don't know anymore." She allows her guard to drop, feeling the radiant warmth on her face. "Sometimes I just feel like giving up." She leans back huffily against someone's desk — "But I know I can't. Do you?"

"Some days," he replies, his eyes softening, almost wistful. Miho feels guilty and she doesn't know why.

"Well, if it helps," she begins, "I'm rooting for you."

"Thanks." Yoshida laughs. "I'll be cheering you on, too."

Miho blinks. "That's nice to know."

* * *

><p>Ikuya finds her staying late after Valentine's day is over, seated limp on the swing-set like a lost child. "Tanimura!" he calls as he approaches her, his footsteps brisk. He takes a seat on the swing beside her, his fingers holding loosely onto the cool metal chain. "How did it go?"<p>

Her face is flushed a faint red all over, but her eyes are dry, narrowed, almost defiant. "There's someone else he likes," she says, tonelessly. "He didn't tell me who, though." The pink plastic bag rustles in her grip, threatening to be blown by the wind. "How'd it go for you, Yoshida?"

"Yamada ran away again," he answers in a murmur, wishing that his voice hadn't come out sounding so exasperated. Yamada doesn't deserve it. "She didn't answer me when I asked her about— "

"They're the same, the both of them, aren't they?" Tanimura cuts in, laughing mockingly; her fingertips curl around the chain, feeling the weight of the metal in her hand. "It's funny, though. No matter how much I tell myself to… I still can't bring myself to give up."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I did." Tanimura kicks absently at the dust under her soles. She looks down at the ground and lets her hair fall freely down. She doesn't bother with accessories, today; her hair is stripped bare of the bright bows and clips she usually adorns it with. He thinks she looks plainer, or maybe she looks closer, exactly like herself. "I felt stupid afterwards."

"That means you're braver than I am," Ikuya says, watching the small smile spread across her face. The light catches onto it and makes her glimmer; she looks pretty in her sadness, and he blinks and tries hard not to think of someone else when he says, "We'll get it right next time."

"Yeah." Tanimura nods tightly. "Someday," he finishes; he lets her hold his hand, just briefly, because all things considered, he needs this as much as she does.

* * *

><p><strong>an: **i ship this so hard and yet i suck very much at writing it. this is way too short and i'm trash and i'm sorry.

also: where is all the good fanfic for this manga omg my crappy writing can't sustain my own self-indulgent urges for much longer


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